In Abundance
by wonderwoundedhearers
Summary: Little traditions must be kept, even in this new world. O/s valentine. Lem.


**Author's note**: A short valentine for all the wonderful authors who keep Rumbelle alive and for all the people who have welcomed me into this fandom. Thank you!

* * *

The first time it happens Rumplestiltskin passes it off as nothing more than a little mistake.

He finds the small, empty jar bearing Belle's name at the back of one of his shelves in his tower, just behind his reel of silver cobwebs, and he puts it down to mislabelling or the mischievous nature of his dainty housekeeper. He does, however, halt in his search of toadstools to run his thumb over the fine and elegant hand that has penned her name.

He wonders if the jar contains something of hers, but he can sense nothing. He puts it back where he found it and continues on his search.

* * *

The second time it happens Rumplestiltskin thinks on it for longer.

He's standing at his main collection of curios, the handle of each glass-panelled door gripped in his hands as he takes stock. He knows something is out of place like he knows the sunlight streaming through the high windows touches his skin.

His eyes find a small golden cup, inside of which is a slip of parchment. He reaches in and smoothes out the soft scrap, finding Belle's name printed neatly upon it.

He clutches it in his grasp, eyeing it curiously. Why she would leave something thus is a mystery on its own, but tucking it into one of his antiquities?

He considers it for the rest of the day sat at his wheel, spinning and wondering.

* * *

The third time it happens Rumplestiltskin knows the girl is up to something.

He can sense no magic, no enchantments upon the paper or in her name, but there is purpose to her dropping these scraps about the castle – and now in his empty potions mortar, under his pestle – and he will find the truth of it.

But every time he goes to ask her, whether they're taking tea or he's invisibly watching her clean from some vantage point, he cannot bring himself to.

She hums while she works and he is left to follow her tune. She dazes him.

It is wrong and it will bring heartache, but he likes her trail of breadcrumbs and he doesn't want to disturb it. Let her throw her paper about, let her leave her name around the castle – he'll enjoy these reminders once she's gone.

* * *

The fourth time it happens Rumplestiltskin takes the parchment from its hiding place and keeps it for his own.

He doesn't know why she found the need to hide her delicate name in the basket of straw at his wheel, but he covets the softly looping letters and worn parchment like a madman.

She's been quiet as of late, his sweet companion, and he fears she draws away from him. These tokens she leaves him keeps him satisfied that she has some amusement to draw from him, that she still finds his company acceptable, and it gives him hope.

What kind of hope, he does not know, but it feels nice as it settles in his chest, fluttering like nesting moths.

He tucks her name in his pocket, keeping it at his breast.

* * *

The fifth time it happens Rumplestiltskin has no choice but to say something about it.

He looks down into his empty and chipped teacup, and there, beneath the spoon, is a tiny scroll bearing Belle's name. He sees her glance at him from the corner of her eye, lifting the teapot to pour their afternoon brew.

He halts her hand, clearing his throat. "What is this?"

She almost, he thinks, looks _relieved_. "Oh."

He plucks the parchment from his cup with a flourish and grips it between thumb and forefinger. Belle's flushed lips twitch in a smile.

"It's tradition, back home," she tells him, her curls falling about her shoulders as she tilts her head and twists her fingers in the skirts of her blue dress.

Rumplestiltskin sits back in his chair, completely stumped. "Yes?"

She nods. "When the snows have melted and spring is near, the girls leave their names in cups and mugs – whatever they can find – and put them outside their doors. The men find the one they favour, and the next day they collect their prize."

"What prize," he manages to rasp out, "would this be?"

Belle blushes prettily, though her eyes remain on his and her shoulders are unbent.

"A kiss," she says in a hushed tone.

"And why have I received your name in abundance, dearie?"

She shifts in her seat for a moment, before standing slowly and stepping from the table. She turns and comes towards him, straightening her skirts and flexing her delicate and lithe little fingers.

"Tradition," she says, without guile, though a smile still creeps across her face.

"Should never be broken," Rumplestiltskin teases, and Belle shakes her head seriously.

"No. It shouldn't."

Before he truly knows it, she has bent to him in the chair and placed her soft lips upon his. She's so warm and welcoming, and his skin is so alight with the knowledge of hers he can barely stand it.

All too soon those pretty lips part from his, and he is left bereft, lost on strange new tides that rock in his chest.

She's nervous, he sees, but determined, and the Gods help anyone, man or monster, who comes between Belle and her prey. She'll kill them with kindness, just like she has him.

She straightens and bustles about with the tea things, cheeks flushed but hands steady, and Rumplestiltskin bites down on the urge to grasp her in his unworthy hands and steal a few more delightful moments of her precious and fleeting light.

* * *

The sixth time it happens Rumplestiltskin is completely unprepared.

They sit at the breakfast table, taking tea in his Storybrooke residence, and in his chipped cup he finds a neat square of white paper bearing Belle's name.

He glances up at her across the table, unable to hide his smile.

"A tradition," she says into her teacup, before leaning in close. "And they mustn't be broken."

He leans in for his prize, all full of pleasure that Belle can remember so much after being given back her memories at curse-break, and receives it in abundance.

Her slender fingers grip the collar of his shirt, holding him against her lips as she opens her mouth to him, _inviting_ him, and he can never deny her.

A moan slips between them, wrested from his lips at the touch of her sweet tongue, and his hands find her long, soft curls as they tumble about her shoulders.

She tugs at his tie, only just fastened by her own fair hands, and loosens it from his shirt, before standing on her stocking-clad feet and tugging him out of his seat.

Her hands pull at the row of buttons on his shirt, but only two come loose. He wrestles with the zip of her yellow dress, his breath catching at the feel of her skin and her kiss and her fingers and...

"Oh, God, _Belle_."

She licks at his mouth, tugs at his zipper, and he was so wrong and so right to show her the pleasures that can be found in bed between the two of them, because he's created a monster but she's _his_ monster, his little wildcat.

Rumplestiltskin feels the kitchen counter at his back and turns, taking Belle into his arms and lifting her as best he can. She wriggles onto the countertop, helping him rid her of her tights and sighing at the feel of his hands beneath her skirts.

"Now, Rum. Please."

He pulls her to the edge, teeth at her throat, and takes his cock in hand, breathing almost cautiously at the first feel of her slick folds against his flushed skin. With a muffled groan, he presses inside her.

Belle is not one to not give all she has, and the same is true of her now, as she seeks her pleasure and fights to bring him his. He barely has enough strength to move against her, blinded by the feel of her surrounding him and whispering in his ear.

She draws him out, fills his body with pleasure, and when she comes, she pushes him off of the precipice too.

Her lips parted and a red bite against her neck, she looks like the perfect valentine – his _only_ – and he never wants to know another.

She kisses his ear, breathing heavily and stroking his hair back from his face. "I never gave you a prize for all those other times you found my name. I thought I'd make up for that oversight."

He laughs, breathless. _What _an oversight.


End file.
